


i will come back to life (but only for you)

by wheo



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: 4 + 1 things, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Minor Violence, also tw for panic attack (kind of?), and alcohol use, the losers are just mentioned, there's mentions of blood so beware, wow this is a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-23 17:35:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12512624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheo/pseuds/wheo
Summary: four times eddie thinks he's delicate and one time he doesn't mind.





	i will come back to life (but only for you)

**Author's Note:**

> title is from 'the calendar' by panic! at the disco
> 
> once again tw for minor violence, a panic attack (kind of?) and use of alcohol

delicate

  
ˈdɛlɪkət/

  
_adjective_

 

1\. very fine in texture or structure; of intricate workmanship or quality.

 

_2\. easily broken or damaged; fragile._

* * *

 

_;13_

_“You know how_ **_delicate_ ** _he is.”_

Eddie hears it, he's not deaf, after all. His arm might be broken but his ears work just fine. He hears it, and it's drowned out by the throbbing pain in his arm but still coherent enough for it to catch his ear. It's drowned out by the glass window separating him and his friends, it's drowned out by the noise in his head alone, but still coherent enough for it to latch itself onto his consciousness.

He hears it and it carves itself into his mind. That word, the word he's heard many times before but never understood. _Delicate._

He repeats it to himself in the mirror, once, twice, three times. Delicate, delicate, delicate. The word sticks to his tongue like glue, slips off his lips like honey, but nothing comes to his mind. Everything is still blank and scary and whenever he says it, he thinks of that day, the day he was almost eaten, _shit,_ the day he almost _died._ It's like he still feels the pain in his back as he slammed down on the floor, still remembers how the ground crumbled underneath him and how he slipped away. In the back of his mind there's a vivid picture of Richie's panicked face, the sound of Richie's frantic rambling and the burning touch of his hand on Eddie's cheek. After that, everything is kind of a blur, kind of there but not really. He doesn't remember how he got out of that house, doesn't remember who helped him out, but he knows he sometimes wished he was left in there to rot.

Days pass, things happen. He gets “loser” written on his cast and wonders if it has something to do with him being delicate. He writes a “V” over the “S” in two strokes of red paint and wonders if, maybe, being delicate was a good thing.

When he finds out his pills aren't at all needed, he wonders if he should be thankful or upset. Thankful that he actually isn't as sick as he thought he was or upset because his mother lied to his face. So when the pills go scattering around the floor, that's when Eddie decides his friends are the only people that were truly good to him.

Eddie Kaspbrak, a smallish, tiny, _delicate_ thirteen year old fights a demon clown back to back with his friends. Back to back with some of the strongest, bravest and courageous people he's ever known. So that makes him strong too, doesn’t it?

He gets puked on, it's gross, for sure, but he doesn't back away. He doesn't have an asthma attack, he barely even shows a hint of disgust, instead, he charges in at the demon and his battle cry of “I'm gonna _kill you”_ rings through the sewers and bounces against wet walls.

The demon dissolves, starved by lack of fear. It's a win and it's a lose because while they saved Derry and themselves, they couldn't bring Georgie back. The losers are surrounding Bill as he cries, comforting him and exchanging sad glances and Eddie’s good arm is on Bill's back and he can't help but feel like crying himself.

They walk out the sewers bloodied and gross, and that night none of them sleep.

Eddie finds himself looking over every bookshelf he can find at three in the morning. As quietly as he can he pulls out a thick, heavy book with hard covers and more pages than Eddie could count. He flips the pages, one by one, like he's reading a newspaper and when he gets to the letter “D” he follows the line of bold words with his finger.

Delectable, delete, deliberate…

Delicate.

He blinks at it, blinks until he's sure his eyes aren't deceiving him and the word looks like it's taunting him, mocking him under the yellowish light of his flashlight and Eddie slams the book shut with tears forming in the corners of his eyes.

He spends the night counting the stars and thinks about how all the stars he's looking at are long gone. They've exploded so many light years ago, went up in a supernova, and Eddie wonders if he could break like that, too.

When he gets to maybe a hundred, a pebble flies over his head, he looks down to see a mess of curls and he smiles because it’s Richie and he’s pretty much glowing in the moonlight and he almost falls while climbing up the tree near Eddie’s window and Eddie just _admires_ him.

Richie plops down on Eddie’s bed, feet high up in the air until he discards his dirty shoes and places them near the bed, not on the carpet because _do you have any idea how hard mud stains are to get out of a white carpet, Richie?_

“I’m surprised you’re still awake at this time of the night, Eddie Spaghetti. What’s got you troubled?”

Eddie shrugs dumbly, “Knew you’d come. Had a gut feeling, the kind of feeling I have when I’m about to take a shit.”

Richie grins at him, the kind of smile that reaches his eyes and Eddie feels like if this moment was stuck in his head in a loop, he wouldn’t mind. Eddie doesn’t question why Richie is here because he knows it’s that clown, knows that it’s the only thing the Losers can see when they close their eyes. So when Richie settles in with him, glasses still sitting on his nose, Eddie doesn’t say anything. He just stares at the little crack in the glass that made Richie’s left eye look kind of weird, and they share the air until the sun comes up, until they’ve ran out of things to count, until the stars are long gone from the sky.

* * *

_;13_

So, Eddie was delicate.

He feels it when Beverly leaves. He feels it as the losers part their ways, tearing him apart in the process. He feels it as he chokes on his sobs every single night after waking up in cold sweat, he feels it as his knees scrape the rough ground and blood trickles down his legs, he feels it every time he finds himself absently tracing the letters on his cast or the scar on his palm.

He feels like a vase that's set on the edge of a table, a vase that's about to fall over and shatter on the ground in any given minute.

It overwhelms him. It overwhelms him so much he starts questioning himself, questioning what made him like this, what made him _weak._ Was it his father's death? Or was it his mom and the way she treated him like he was a porcelain doll that could be knocked over and broken with any wrong move?

He keeps it to himself, he keeps his thoughts locked in the deepest parts of his mind. He doesn't think anyone would care or understand anyway.

Beverly leaves, so does Ben. Mike stops coming as he's needed more and more on the farm, Stan barely leaves the house, and when he does, it's very brief. He says he isn't “up to it”, but they all know he's ashamed of his scars. The mirror in his bedroom is flipped around.

It's down to Bill, Richie and Eddie.

Bill feels like his parents have loosened up ever since he stopped bringing up Georgie. Things at home aren't as terrible as before but there's still some sort of tension, like Bill wants his parents to know what really happened to Georgie but he can't tell them, it would hurt too much, it would reopen a painful wound and most of all, they wouldn't believe him.

Richie is the same old Richie. He jokes, he laughs and Eddie admires him from afar. Sometimes from close, even, like when they lay in the tall grass near the quarry and count all the stars they can see. Or when they're a breath away, sleeping in the same bed with hands intertwined between them, fingers tied together like a knot. Eddie finds himself looking deep into Richie's eyes before falling asleep to the tune of the other’s breathing, the soft rising of his chest - and Eddie thinks, _wonders_ how Richie can look so peaceful while he’s sleeping, how he never wakes up screaming or punching something that isn't even there.

Eddie admires Richie in silence, admires his ability to forget, to push all the awful memories to the back of his mind, admires how he didn't budge, didn't stumble after everything that happened, how he carried on about his way, still making “your mom” jokes and still bantering back and forth with anyone he could get a hold of.

Eddie trusts Richie. He knows Richie, knows how silly he is and how he jokes all the time just to cover things up, but knows he's willing to listen and be serious when he needs to. That's why he tells Richie first, asks him something that's been on his mind since Neibolt, hasn't left since the sewers. It was still an itch under his skin, something bothersome he couldn't get rid of, something hovering in the back of his mind at all times.

When he says it, it's just him and Richie because Bill had went to Stan's to cheer him up, carrying a movie tape under his arm with a goofy grin on his face and the Losers’ greetings on the tip of his tongue. He leaves on his bike, his good old Silver, and Richie and Eddie are left behind to busy themselves with whatever they can think of.

They end up at their favourite spot near the quarry, laying in the grass, a few blades tickling the sides of Eddie's face and the back of his neck, but he doesn't mention it. His hands feel like they've been dipped in sweat and he wipes them on his shorts in disgust, blames it on the hot weather even though they're already a few days into September.

Richie's eyes are closed, he's humming to himself, a soft, calming tune. His hands are behind his head, his glasses a bit messed up but overall still perfect as he always was, at least in Eddie's mind. Eddie examines him, examines the soft curve of his lips, the way his glasses sat on his nose and the hair strands falling back from his forehead. Eddie wants to tuck them behind his ear.

“Richie,” he starts, and his tongue feels thick and heavy in his mouth, his vocal chords giving away his anxiety as his voice cracks mid-word. Richie opens his eyes to look at Eddie but Eddie isn't looking at him, he's staring up at the pastel blue sky and figuring out shapes of clouds to calm his mind.

“Do you think I’m delicate?”

It comes out slow and weak and silent, and it's more of a whisper than anything, but Richie hears it and his eyebrows furrow. Deep lines form in his forehead as he frowns, tearing his eyes from Eddie, and Eddie wants to kick himself.

“No. Why do you think that?” he says, chewing on his lip, his voice raspy and wavering, and Eddie doesn't dare to look at him.

“I… It's because of your mom, isn't it? She told you all these things, filled your head with nonsense and now you're starting to believe her, aren't you?” His tone is accusing, almost angry, and Eddie winces, because he's not used to Richie being mad at him, matter of fact, he doesn't even remember the last time his best friend was _seriously_ angry with him.

Richie notices Eddie's uncomfort, notices how Eddie fell silent, basically folding in on himself.

“Eddie, look,” Richie sighs, sitting up and leaning back with his palms sprawled out wide in the grass for support, nails almost digging into dirt but it doesn't matter because they're dirty anyway. Eddie doesn't look, doesn't tear his eyes from the clouds, instead he focuses on the one right above him, shaped like a turtle, or maybe a hedgehog? He doesn't know. Richie’s voice is like a whisper in his ears, but Richie keeps talking, keeps rambling because he's sure Eddie can hear him.

“You’re not whatever your mother says you are. She barely knows you, Eddie, she knows you less than any of us losers do. She doesn't know what we've been through, what _you've_ been through.” He stops and sighs again, looking back at Eddie who's still refusing to look at him, still not showing any of the signs that he's listening, but Richie knows he is.

“She treats you like porcelain and trust me, you're not. You're strong, you're like-” Richie looks around, observing his surroundings and he sees water, he sees trees, some tall, some small, almost as tiny as Eddie is. He catches a glimpse of a boulder, sitting near the water, with graffiti sprayed onto it in all sorts of colours and Richie thinks back to Eddie's cast, the bright red V over the taunting black S. He points at it - points at it but doesn't know for who to see because Eddie isn't looking anyway. “See that rock? That's you. You're that strong,” he turns back to Eddie again and scratches the back of his neck, scratches at an imaginary itch just to seem more casual, “except, like, you're a lot smaller. So, like a pebble. A really small one. And a cute one.”

Eddie finally sits up, small and quiet and Richie is looking at him, looking for a sign that he said something right. And when Eddie bursts into a fit of giggles and punches Richie in the shoulder lightly, Richie is relieved, and he pretends it hurts like hell, rubs at his shoulder, and smiles.

They spend the afternoon observing the white fluffy clouds, and Richie points to one and Eddie points to another and they look like they once were a part of a whole, like they formed something bigger, something more beautiful. And Eddie wonders how do clouds break or if they break at all, but he figures it doesn't matter, because he's not a cloud. He's not a star, either, he's a human being, and if he ever does break, it will be ten times more beautiful than a supernova or a cloud.

Richie points to another one and says it looks like something very inappropriate, and Eddie laughs even though he doesn't see it, even though he isn't even looking, even though the only thing he can see and the only thing he wants to look at is laying right next to him, sprawled out in the tall grass, messy hair and crooked glasses.

* * *

_;16_

Eddie couldn't breathe.

His chest hurt and he heaved for air, gasping and crying and sobbing as he trotted along the sidewalks of Derry. His bike was discarded somewhere in the woods - wherever the 'new Bowers gang’ jumped at him and slammed his back into a tree over and over again, so hard that Eddie felt like the curves of the tree's trunk carved themselves into the soft skin of his back. He could still feel exactly where their tennis shoes dug themselves deep into his sides and stomach, like bruises were already blossoming all over him, light patches of purple on fair skin like paint on a blank canvas.

The street lights looked blood red to him and his walk home felt like he was walking towards hell, like the bushes he accidentally stumbled into were fiery tongues and the starry sky above him was nothing but dark, murky grey. His eyes were droopy and he was tired, stopping near every other street light so he could lean on it for a second, leaving bloodied handprints on grey metal.

When he made it to the one in front of his house, he folded in on himself, the unpleasant feeling in his stomach rising all the way up to his throat as he threw up all over the pavement.

Now, if Eddie Kaspbrak was still the same Eddie Kaspbrak he was yesterday, he would be disgusted, he wouldn't wipe his mouth with his sleeve and he definitely _would_ use two bottles of hand sanitizer to get the feeling of mud and dirt and blood off of his hands. But he was way too tired to think about that, way too tired to think in general when the only thing coming to his mind was the words that were spat in his face as he received more punches, more feet digging into him, crashing with his ribs and whatever was in his stomach, and he wonders how he didn't throw up there, on the spot.

The lights in his house were still lit, even the one in his room, and his head hurt ten times worse at the thought of facing his mother in the condition he was in. She would probably take him to the hospital immediately, forbid him to hang out with the Losers ever again and put him on house arrest, which was definitely not something he was looking towards to.

So, as much as it pained him, he turned back and took a left on where his and Richie's streets meet, dragging his feet like they had weights tied to them.

Knocking on the Tozier’s door with bruised knuckles and bloodied fingers was a pain in the ass on it's own, though explaining to Richie's mother why he was interrupting her second bottle of her 'relaxation elixir’ at this time in the night was even worse, though she was drunk enough to let him in without noticing how beaten up he was.

Eddie walked up the stairs and barged in Richie's room without knocking, no matter how many times he instantly regretted doing that, like when he walked in on Richie kissing Clary from chem class, or Darcy from soc class, or that pretty brunette he doesn't know the name of that Richie still always nods to in passing...

Eddie wants to kick himself on his own now, wants to dig his own shoe into his chest, wants to cause his own pain himself in order to numb the one blossoming on the inside, deep and buried, the one that Eddie doesn't want to call heartache because his heart is still beating and fine and as healthy as it could be. Sadly, 'soulache’ wasn't a thing.

He twists the doorknob and the door creaks - creaks like Eddie would imagine his bones would be creaking if he stayed even a second longer under the soles of harsh shoes, under the weight of a person twice his size. He walks in and Richie is on his bed, headphones gingerly pressing down his messy hair, loose curls falling all over his face, and his head snaps towards Eddie, big brown eyes behind thickly rimmed glasses and Eddie feels that same pain once again.

“Hi,” he forces out, weak and lame and it's all he can think of because Richie is staring at him in a way that makes him want to run out and hide and never show himself in front of the other boy ever again.

Richie doesn't take the time to greet him back because he's already all up in Eddie's space, one hand gripping his chin as he tilts Eddie's head left and right, up and down, examining his bruised jaw and bloodied nose and split lip and Eddie feels like he's at a doctor's appointment and he laughs kind of helplessly because it's _Richie._ It's Richie and he's focused on figuring out what happened to him, what happened to his Eddie Spaghetti and Eddie laughs even harder, so hard he shakes and it hurts, but he's laughing, giggling wildly, and Richie is looking at him with worried eyes.

“Who did this?” Richie asks, and it's more of a demand than a question and Eddie barely hears him through his own laughter and the buzzing in his ears.

“I fell.” Eddie offers, his laughter fading out as he stares back at Richie's narrowed eyes. He can tell Richie is seriously upset, already considering every person in Derry as a suspect, already trying to solve the case in his mind.

Richie knows Eddie is lying and Eddie never thought Richie would buy his story in the first place because he's smart, he's not stupid or dense or gullible. But Richie doesn't mention it, doesn't push Eddie to talk, instead he looks at him with sad eyes, nods towards the bathroom as he pulls away to look through his drawers.

The instant Eddie closes the door behind himself it's all tears and whimpers, he watches his figure shaking in the mirror and he wants to punch it but his knuckles are too busy gripping at the sink until they're white, until the bruises on them are unbearably painful, until he feels like his bones are gonna rip through his skin. Richie barges in, rips him away from the sink, situates him against the bathtub on the floor and he holds his hands, wipes his tears, tucks his hair away from his face so he could find Eddie's eyes. Richie whispers to him, soft and sweet and silent words that Eddie doesn't remember and they stay like that, Eddie's bruised back against the bathtub and Richie crouching in front of him. They stay like that until Eddie can breathe again, until Richie runs out of words to comfort him with, and when Eddie finally surfaces from underwater, he feels like he hasn't appreciated air enough.

It hurts Eddie to even change into clean clothes, so Richie has to pull his shirt over his back for him and Eddie knows Richie saw all the bruises and scratches and dried up blood on his back but once again, he doesn't mention it.

For the first time ever, they don't sleep in the same bed. Richie insists he sleeps on the floor so Eddie is more comfortable and he sounds hurt as he says it but Eddie can't do much except comply because fighting with his best friend was the last thing on his to-do list.

The second he's laid down, Eddie feels sleep taking over him until he's jolted awake by a whimper, almost a sob, and he reaches for the string of the lamp on the nightstand and pulls it, dim yellow light illuminating the whole room. He looks down, Richie's form is shaking just slightly under a heap of blankets over him and Eddie almost gasps, almost reaches out to him but finds himself stuck in place.

“Richie?” he calls, insecure and silent and slurry with sleepiness, and Richie doesn't budge, doesn't move except for the slight trembling. “What's wrong?”

“You're so fucking dumb, Eddie. You're so dumb sometimes, do you know that?”

Eddie doesn't wince, doesn't react to Richie's insult even though it wasn't a joke, not from the tone of Richie's voice. He stares at his hands in his lap, looks at anything but Richie as the pain in his chest surfaces again. “I’m sorry.”

“If you were sorry,” Richie starts, muffled by his pillow or his blankets or maybe his sleeve, in the end it doesn't matter because Eddie can hear him very clearly, can hear the distress in his voice and for the second time that night, Eddie wants to punch himself until he's literally knocked out of his consciousness, until he can't ruin anything anymore.

“If you were sorry, you wouldn't do this. You wouldn't - you wouldn't get yourself almost killed once again.” Richie finally turns around and he looks different without his glasses, older, maybe. Eddie would never get used to that.

“What if something worse happened to you? What if, what if you-” _died,_ is a word left unspoken, and Richie closes his eyes as if he was trying to think of a softer alternative.

“- what if you got seriously hurt, Eddie? What would I do?”

Eddie can only repeat he's sorry over and over again, like a broken record, and the word _delicate_ bubbles up in the back of his mind. He thinks about it, long and hard until the last 'I’m sorry’ slips from his lips, until Richie's snoring is filling the room, until the sun is almost out at the horizon.

He thinks about it, wonders how many more cracks until he finally breaks.

* * *

_;17_

When Eddie turns seventeen, it's nothing big, at least not how Richie dreamed it would be.

“We're gonna get fireworks,” he would say. “And we're gonna trash the school and drink until we don't know our own names.”

It ends up being just Eddie and Richie, Eddie and Richie on Richie's roof, Eddie and Richie laying shoulder to shoulder, Eddie and Richie singing songs off the tops of their lungs. It's Richie singing _you are the dancing queen, young and sweet, only seventeen,_ and it's Eddie laughing until he's shaking, laughing until his stomach aches.

They listen to the sounds of Derry, listen to the crickets, to the neighbor's boombox blasting on full volume like they know it's Eddie's birthday and they're celebrating. They take turns gulping down golden liquid from a crystal glass bottle Richie snatched from his mother's stash, but not like she will notice. Eddie is taking it slow, careful to only swallow little amounts as his throat burns while the liquid drips down his tongue, kind of bitter but kind of sweet. Richie is drinking like it's the end of the world and sometimes it spills from his lips and drips down his chin and he giggles, happy and content.

“Okay, okay, I have something to announce.” Richie starts and shifts a little and for a second Eddie is afraid he's going to get up to make a toast and tumble down the roof but thankfully he stays seated. He's looking at Eddie through his glasses, eyes hazy and glazed over with alcohol and Eddie thinks he looks dumb, dumb and cute and really kissable, but he doesn't say it.

“I love you.” Richie blurts out, slurred but easy, like it's nothing. “I love you and I have loved you since we were thirteen and you broke your arm, do you remember?” He smiles to himself, like it's something sweet to think back to, not a haunting memory carved into Eddie's mind, “You broke your arm, and you were - you were screaming, you were like 'don’t fucking touch me’ and I snapped your arm back into place and walked you out and your mother, she took you away and I punched Bill and-” he stops, furrows his brows and giggles, “- that doesn't matter, but I do know-” he hiccups, shoulders bouncing and the liquid splashing around in the bottle he was holding. “I do know losing you was one of the scariest moments of my life. I never felt so scared and helpless like I did when you vanished.” He falls silent suddenly, setting the bottle aside and fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

“I thought It got you.”

Eddie is staring at him with teary eyes and gaping mouth and he can't force himself to say anything except 'I have to go’ and he scrambles up and scrambles down the wooden stairs they set up to get to the roof and he runs, runs as fast as his feet can carry him. He doesn't think about Richie, doesn't think how he will get back down as wasted as he is.

All he can think about is the sound of another part of him breaking.

* * *

_;17_

Eddie avoids Richie.

He avoids him in the halls of the school, ignores his calls, the letters he leaves in his locker. He reads all of them, though, reads about how confused Richie is and how he doesn't know what he did and a part of him wants to go talk to him, wants to face him, but he can't. It would hurt too much.

Eddie runs into Richie at the arcade, runs into him and then takes the beeline straight for the bathrooms without thinking. He doesn't hear Richie calling after him, at least he pretends he doesn't, and he doesn't care about how many people he accidentally bumped into while blindly running to safety.

He busts the bathroom door open and Richie follows suit and in that moment the realization that _oh, this is stupid,_ hits Eddie like a brick wall. Before he could reach for any of the stalls, Richie is gripping his wrist, forcing Eddie to face him and the smaller boy is doing everything he can to break free.

“Kaspbrak. Just the man I wanted to see.”

Eddie scoffs at the name Richie has called him, pulling his arm towards himself, but fruitlessly, because Richie is stuck to him like a leech. “Trying to intimidate me with calling me by just my last name? That's low, even for you, Tozier.”

“Actually, I'm not trying to intimidate you. I'm trying to talk to you.” Richie says, calm. He lets go of Eddie's wrist and Eddie stays on the spot because he feels like that's the only option he has right now.

“So are you going to tell me what I did-”

“You told me you loved me.” Eddie blurts, staring at the cracks in the tiled floor, dragging the top of his worn out sneaker over them. “On my birthday, on the roof, you told me you loved me, and I guess it was funny to you but it wasn't to me. I guess you thought it was this awesome joke, to mess with me like that. But it really wasn't funny, Richie.”

“That’s because it wasn't a joke.”

Eddie looks up and Richie looks calm, not a single hint of joking on his face and Eddie can only stare at him. “What?”

“What?” Richie repeats mockingly, walking over into Eddie's space. He places a hand on Eddie's cheek, soft and gentle, and Eddie can only think about how close they are and how warm Richie's breath is on his cheek and before he knows it, Richie is kissing him. It only takes a few milliseconds before Eddie can kiss back, tangling his fingers into Richie's hair, placing one hand on the back of Richie's neck as if he was scared the other would run away. They only break apart for air before coming down again, much more desperate and full of need, full of want that's been burning in both of them for so long.

When they break apart the second time they press their foreheads together, still a breath away and Eddie is gasping for air and Richie is smiling like a proud bastard that he is.

“I love you,” Eddie rasps out, silent and insecure, “I love you so much.”

“I love you too” Richie answers simply, pecking the corner of Eddie's mouth, “but not more than your mom.”

Eddie pushes him away by his shoulders with a grimace, but laughs nevertheless, “Way to ruin the moment, jackass. Can you shut up for at least a second?”

Richie’s shoulders bounce with laughter and he grins, striding back towards Eddie in two long steps, “If you do the honours.”

Eddie rolls his eyes in a fond kind of way and pecks him on the lips just barely, and Richie pouts and Eddie thinks he looks so, so dumb but he kisses him anyway.

And even though all of Eddie's pieces were mended together, he still felt like bursting at the seams from happiness, from love, like going up in a supernova as if he was the brightest star in the sky, kind of tragic but kind of beautiful, too.

**Author's Note:**

> woo look at this 5,3k monster of a fic. im lowkey proud of this so. lets hope it doesnt flop. although this idea is. kind of overdone? not really but i tried putting my own twist into it so uh. yeah. thank you so much for reading, if you like it please let me know + kudos/comments make my day. excuse any errors and/or mistakes and i guess ill see you on the flipside! ps. heres my[ tumblr blog](https://gayrodrick.tumblr.com/). im kind of inactive because, uh, school? but feel free to send in a prompt or hmu!


End file.
